


The Dragon of the Fringe

by temporalDecay



Series: distrait shorts [9]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Throne sits in the Dragon's jaws.</p><p>In which the last Admiral to swear fealty to Feferi sets out to put their affairs in order, Karkat collapses into a singularity of hate, the Helmsman collapses into a singularity of snark, and Eridan discovers a wholly different side to his Ancestor's tale. Includes a fabulous seadwealler bastard, an ominous Handmaid, a dragon, and a hidden chapter in the history of the Empire that most would definitely prefer to <em>stay</em> hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon of the Fringe

**Author's Note:**

> Fucking _finally_. I've been working on this for months now.

You sit before the mirror and contemplate your face, trying to decide what to do with it. You have to make an impression today, after all, remind the Empire you still exist and don’t plan on going away any time soon. Your victory carries impressive weight as it is, as does the number of ships returning with your flagship, after quite possibly the most successful campaign in the last three centuries. The Empress that commissioned you to the task is not the same to whom you bow down now, but that only means you need to be extra careful to show you embraced the spirit of her reign, even if it meant changing tactics halfway through the pacification process of the newly annexed colonies. Still studying your features and trying to compose a nice mental image for your important meeting today, you reach a hand and delicately tap on the husktop nearby. 

“Status?” You ask, absently rubbing a finger along the arch of an eyebrow, “talk to me, Captain, you’ve gone awfully quiet.” 

“Apologies, Admiral,” she replies, voice nice and even, “we’re still waiting for the last few cruisers to make the leap. The _Leviathan_ is on time, however, and we are somewhat still ahead of schedule.” 

“Mmm,” you fiddle with eyeliners, trying to decide which color will suit the occasion best. You have a somewhat limited range, considering how long it’s been since you last had access to full, continuous, organized supplies and in the great scale of things, you are willing to concede that eyeliner is not the top priority. “Tell them I’ll shoot down three cruisers from among those who get here late, if they need any incentive to make the jump on time.” 

“Of course,” you grin a little at the uncertainty in her voice. You make threats all the time, but age has taught you that the trick is to go through with them only _some_ of the time. Keeps people on their toes and focused on not making gambles that could cost them their heads. You’ve never been overly fond of gamblers, after all. “Arrival of the _Leviathan_ estimated in six hours, seventy-two Captains aboard and counting. I will continue updates as the rest of the cruisers arrive.” 

“See that you do,” you say, tone absolutely cordial as you finally decide for a nice, vibrant violet, “it would be most unfortunate to not give the Chancellor the welcome he deserves.” 

You close the communication just for the sake of leaving the words hanging. The extra stress will do them good, in the long run; you can’t let them get all insubordinate and sloppy just because you’re not in a warzone anymore. They will do you proud, in the end, because the price of disappointing you is something you’ve made very, very clear to them. You are forty sweeps late, in meeting the Empress personally, but by the time you’re done, you’re certain she will have forgotten the slight. The Condescension forgave you much greater follies, and what you’ve managed to gather on the Complacence speaks of a far more forgiving nature. She sounds like a delightful child, with the most interesting ideas. In the Fringe, where the only real law is still brute force and sheer fire power, her reforms are heard of but never really put in practice. You look forward to seeing how the folk of the Inner Rim have managed to adapt to an Empress that seems hell-bent in turning social order upside down. The next few millennia will certainly be entertaining, as far as you can tell, and just for that alone, she has your unflinching devotion. 

You do so loathe being bored, after all. 

The reports come in a timely manner, as you busy yourself braiding the hair on the right side of your head and arranging the rest to fall properly down your shoulders. The wardrobifier delivers the boring white uniform without upsetting your hair, thankfully, and you immediately wrap a wide, billowy sash around your waist several times as it fans down your hips. The result is closer to a skirt than anything else, and you give it a few more tugs until it’s properly in place. You could, technically, just wear a damn skirt, of course, but the uniform regulated skirts are boring as all hell and not knowing the Chancellor personally, you prefer to test the waters as it were. You carefully choose each piece of jewelry, coordinating it with the violet accents in your face and the slight modifications you’ve made to the uniform. 

You have, after all, a reputation to maintain; it wouldn’t do to disappoint historicensors after they went through all the trouble of giving you such a nice title. 

An hour before the _Leviathan_ is scheduled to dock in your ship, the entirety of your fleet has arrived and all Captains are aboard and waiting instructions, so you will not have to shoot down any cruisers after all. You sit in your quarters, giving your reports one last review and enjoying a light meal, and smile to yourself at the prospect of the next few nights. 

  


* * *

  


The _Deathfowl_ is the last greater battle cruiser in the entire Alternian fleet. Under the previous Empress, the class J, affectionately known as juggernauts, spearheaded the conquests of the Empire, trailing after the _Battleship Condescension_ in its travels across the galaxy. Under the new Empress, however, all but your ship have been decommissioned and their crews reassigned to smaller, less heavily armed cruisers, simply because Her Imperious Complacence has no real interest in conquering new worlds or continuing her predecessor’s aggressive expansion policies. If you have it your way, however – and you will, because for all you already like her, the new Empress is a child and you’ve been playing this game for far too long to get bested by a _child_ – the _Deathfowl_ will not suffer the same fate. It is a massive monument to the past glories of the Empire, easily dwarfing most space stations and packing enough fire power on its own to decimate most planets in one fell swoop, if necessary. 

It’s also _yours_ , and you are unfortunately viciously territorial about the things you’ve deemed your own. 

You receive the Chancellor and his entourage of ministers and councilmen, and the smile you give him is genuine, if nothing else because you approve of the way he refuses to be intimidated by the wall of highblood war veterans behind you. 

“Chancellor Vantas,” you say, savoring the words and offering him the smallest curtsy in acknowledgement to rank, and allow your smile to widen as your Captains hasten to follow your example with much deeper bows. “Please, allow me to extend the utmost cordial welcome aboard my humble vessel.” 

“If this is what you call humble,” he says, nodding in acknowledgement, “I can see why they call you the Peacock, Imoogi.” 

Someone gasps behind you. You make note to review the footage later and have such unbecoming rudeness properly chastised. You also let the silence linger, if only to watch everyone but Vantas squirm, before you give him a good-natured laugh. 

“I prefer Admiral,” you shrug, arching an eyebrow down at him, positively delighted. “Took me two thousand sweeps to earn _that_ title, Chancellor, it’s far more dear to me than the one in history books.” 

“They’re pretty interesting books, though,” Vantas gives you a smirk full of teeth, and you decide you’re going to be friends with this mutant, because he’s _fascinating_. “Admiral.” 

“Bland nonsense, I assure you,” you flash him a grin full of teeth. “They omit all the fun parts.” 

“Perhaps later you could fill me in on the fun parts,” he says, almost challengingly. “I am sure Her Imperious Complacence would also enjoy your stories.” 

“Everyone enjoys my stories, Chancellor,” you tease, secretly amused by the way your Captains continue to try and not give away their fear. “The hero always wins.” His eyes narrow suspiciously at that. It seems someone has taught him something about threats and diplomacy, in the sweeps he’s been in power, and that pleases you greatly, because otherwise the game would be terribly, terribly boring. “Alas, you’ve made such a long journey, please, enjoy my hospitality before we discuss more sober things. We are all so delighted to have you aboard, after all.” 

They try to hide it, they really do, but you notice the tiniest shifts in a few of the Captains behind you. They’re trolls of the Fringe, warlords by their own right that cower at your feet because you’ve _made_ them to, who embrace the hemospectrum as nothing more than a tool to gather more power to themselves and enjoy the savage thrill of violence and ruthlessness that dominates the borders of the Empire. Before this visit is over, you’re certain, one of them will die. Only one, though, because the lesson you’ll teach will make certain of it. You don’t allow your thoughts to reach your face, however, maintaining a pleasant smile on your face as you direct Vantas and his people to the accommodations you have prepared for them. The _Leviathan_ is secure in the hangars where it will be taken care of, and you don’t doubt for a moment that Vantas would much rather stay within his ship than take your hospitality, but he really has no choice but to accept at least for a night. You won’t need too much time to get through to him, you think, and then everything will be as it should be. 

You’ll make sure of it. 

  


* * *

  


“Ah,” you say, holding the cup halfway to your lips as you feel the telltale shift of the universe itself rearranging around your visitor. “It has been a long time, My Lady.” 

There’s no smile on your face when you find her sprawled on your desk, however, because you do not approve of such rude displays and refuse to humor them. You have the sinking feeling she delights in it, but that is of no consequence to you. You arch an eyebrow as the Handmaid licks her pipe, limbs askew and smile a meanspirted tilt of lips. 

“Time ain’t long, or short,” she says, eyes glinting in amusement, “Time is always _right_.” 

You take a sip of your wine to give yourself a moment to contemplate a possible answer to that, but three sips later you decide not to bother. It’s not, of course, because you couldn’t think of a suitable rebuttal, but because as always, you refuse to engage her riddles and her rudeness. Madness follows those who dance with the Handmaid, and your Ancestors taught you too well for that. 

“I don’t suppose your visit here has anything to do with my other prestigious guest, does it?” You sneer as she blows rings of smoke into your ceiling. “Or have you simply come to enjoy the pleasure of my company?” 

“Everything has to do with everything, if you know the right way to look at it, _Admiral_.” She grins at you, that same mad, feral grin that will haunt you for the rest of your days, as it has since the first time you saw it. “And your company is worse than maggots in an open wound.” 

“By all means, don’t let me force you to endure it any longer then,” you snap back, eyes narrowed and jaw set, because you don’t need this, not now. “I find your riddles dull, My Lady.” 

Darkness leaks out of her and rolls down the desk and on the floor, crawling up your feet. The walls seem to be melting as space creaks all around you, and something in the back of your mind screams in recoil of such perversion of the natural order. 

“I find your kind disgusting,” she bites back, and you’re on the floor now, or the floor is on you, and you keep looking at her and her odious smile because otherwise you might have to look at the way reality itself is twisting into something vile. “But your kind is useful, so I’ve let you live on this long.” She arches an eyebrow at you, pipe caught between her teeth. “ _Be_ useful, Garfit, or this Empire you love so much will fall into ruin.” 

“You need only to ask, My Lady,” you force the words out through gritted teeth, refusing to acknowledge the fact you’re on your knees now, or the myriad of monstrous things you can glimpse at through the gaping holes in reality all around you, as the corruption of the world itself threatens to make your mind collapse on itself. 

“You know what you have to do, so do it _well_ ,” she says, taking another mouthful of smoke and then releasing it into the block with a sigh. In the wake of each curl, everything returns to what it was. “You think this is a game, and though there’s a board and pieces on it, don’t let temptation convince you you’re a player, Admiral. Do your duty, like you know how, and leave the games for those who can see the entirety of the board.” 

“I don’t—“ 

“I will not warn you again.” 

And then she’s gone, dripping through the seams of reality, gone to honor the gods she serves, and you are alone in your respiteblock, kneeling to the unknown. You stand up slowly, running mental inventory of all limbs, and head over to serve yourself another cup of wine. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

  


* * *

  


“I am not entirely sure what level of scrutiny would satisfy you, Chancellor, but my Captains assure me they’re more than ready to present their reports directly if you want them to,” you say, leading the much shorter troll along the bridges towards your audience hall. Normally you wouldn’t really notice his height, since you’re not foolish enough to think size has anything to do with how dangerous a troll is, but the Chancellor is truly small and a long buried part of your pan keeps trying to see him as a child. You wonder if that’s the temptation the Handmaid warned you about, but you don’t think you’re so lucky. “I’m more than ready to give you some insight into the workings of the Fringe myself, if you’d prefer.” 

“You don’t have to do anything special for my sake, Admiral,” Vantas mutters, trying to appear indifferent to his surroundings, but not quite successfully. “Report to me as you normally would.” 

The core of the _Deathfowl_ is a massive tank of water, around which all corridors become uncovered bridges. You keep a scrupulous collection of fish, Alternian and alien alike, that serve as decoration and a subtle threat. Out of all the Admirals that have ever served the Empire, you are the only one who has ever been allowed to break the precise, rigid lines that govern all others’ lives. You like color and beauty and expensive trinkets that serve no other purpose than to be amusing and look pretty. Many other highbloods do as well, but you are the only one allowed to have them in the open, to relish in them in front of everyone who cares to look, because no one would ever dare claim they are distractions. 

You watch Vantas eye the schools of fish lazily swimming in the tank, scales shimmering in all colors as they pass by the glass, and wish yet again that you could read minds. You might never be bored again, if you could sit in a corner and listen to the riots running through everyone else’s mind. 

“I do, actually,” you laugh gently, arms folded behind your back, “I haven’t reported to anyone in more than six millennia, Chancellor. You could say I am out of practice.” 

That seems to bring him back from his contemplations and immediately puts frown on his face. 

“Why’s that?” He demands, mind probably racing with suspicion and possibilities. 

“Well,” you smile, “because I proved myself competent enough then, and the Empress never had any reason to revisit her assessment of my work. Of course, given the Condescension is dead and I’ve yet to prove myself to the Complacence, I understand these things are necessary. I only wish to make the process more efficient.” You stop outside the glass doors to the audience hall, which overlooks the top of the tank and has an unobstructed the view of the bridges and the trolls hurrying along doing their business. “I am a loyal servant of the Empire, Chancellor, it is my only wish to show the Empress all I can and have done for her.” 

Vantas eyes you carefully, before he very deliberately goes sit on one of the plush armchairs by the desk. You smile at him and sit next to him, instead of taking the seat across the desk. You can see he understands the symbolism, given the way he narrows his eyes. 

“What have you done for the Empress, then?” He arches an eyebrow. “Conquered a few worlds?” 

“An entire sector, yes,” you raise your hands in a placating gesture, palms side up. “But not the way you’re thinking. It was all done in the spirit of Her Imperious Complacence’s wish for peace and harmony across the Empire. I negotiated peace with my former adversaries, and they annexed themselves into the Empire out of their own will, rather than through systemic genocide. They sent diplomatic envoys and many presents to their new Empress, as a show of goodwill. You are more than welcome to meet with them, if you’d like. I find they are quite reasonable, likable folk.” 

“And that has nothing to do with them being trapped aboard the largest ship in the Empire, surrounded by troops and heavy artillery, constantly dancing with the threat of war.” 

“Of course not,” you reach out to serve yourself a cup of tea – the Chancellor’s favorite, or so your sources say – and one for him as well. “While it was necessary to use force to end the conflict, you will find my guests are well taken care of. You are too young, pardon, the Empire itself is too young to remember this and what it meant, but I follow the rules of hospitality, Chancellor.” 

“Any other superstitious wisdom you follow that I don’t?” He taunts, and you muse to yourself that he has atrocious manners, but you might as well like him anyway. “Like the sanctity of the hemospectrum or the—“ 

“If I may be blunt?” You smile at him, putting down the cup. He hasn’t even touched his. “The hemospectrum is a social construct loosely based on convenient biology. That blood color defines a troll’s life, from a biological point of view, is self-evident truth. It became a tool of the Empress and the Empire to enforce control and pacify Alternia when war was so widespread it pushed trollkind nearly to extinction, and it obeyed the circumstances out of necessity. The hemospectrum is and has always been a tool, and the Empress is free to use it as she sees fit. It is as bad to let it be used as an excuse for baseless arrogance, as it is to let it be the base of worthless martyrdom. Your blood doesn’t make you who you are, Chancellor, any more than mine makes me who I am. My blood didn’t win the wars for me, nor it brought my fleet to heel any more than yours makes the Empire kneel at your feet. Others might have the luxury of believing so, but only because they will never amount to anything in the great scheme of things. Pardon me, Chancellor Vantas, but you and I are both too great to be arguing semantics over something as childish as the hue of our blood.” 

You arch an eyebrow at him as he studies you, without even pretending he’s not. But the words have reached to him, you can tell, because he’s relaxed somehow. He was expecting a blood purist from the Fringe, a savage no doubt, and he needs to recalibrate his reactions to the fact you’re not. That pleases you greatly, because it means that you will not have to fight him too much to get your way. 

“Walk with me,” he says after a long silence, reaching out to take the cup you served him, taking a long, grateful gulp before putting it back on the desk, “and tell me about the new colonies, then.” He stands up again, and you find the fact he sticks his hands into his pockets the most adorable thing in the world. He looks like a sullen child, and you’re positive you should not like him nearly as much as you already do. “I’d rather not be stuck inside a block.” 

You smile, sliding back to your feet with a rustle of fabric. 

“Please, lead the way.” 

He’s a good listener, and you don’t mind the sound of your own voice, so you walk together as you tell him of the battles and the treaties, and he studies your ship in its entire splendor. His eyes keep trailing back to the tank and the fish in it, absorbing some of his attention though you don’t doubt he’s still listening to your voice. You see the blueblood before Vantas does, ax at the ready and suicidal fury making his eyes all but glow. Your eyes _do_ glow then, violet like your blood, as you stop the man perhaps ten feet away from Vantas. The mutant looks at you first in confusion, as you stopped your narration so abruptly, and then in horror as he realizes the situation. 

“You will apologize to the Chancellor for your rudeness,” you say, voice flat and bolts of violet curling all around you as the ship itself _creaks_ in response to the psionic pressure. When the blueblood refuses to do more than snarl, you don’t break his arm as much as tear it right off its socket. He howls in pain, the sound making Vantas cower minutely. Absently, you find that disappointing. “Apologize to the Chancellor,” you snarl again, vaguely aware of the crowd gathering to watch the gruesome spectacle. “And then you will apologize to me, for trying to hurt someone under my protection.” 

You need to tear off another limb, before the proud idiot chokes out the words. In the tank behind you, you feel the stir and know your lusus is awake by the sudden, horrified silence stretching all around you. Vantas makes a choked noise in the back of his throat as you fling the treacherous blueblood in the air, blood arching behind him until your lusus breaks the surface of the water and reaches well outside the tank to swallow the man whole in a swift motion that belies its size. The dragon turns back into the depths of the tank silently, coils of white scales flowing easily into the dark, all the more impressive because it made no sound at all. 

You feel fury burn itself through you, even though you were fully prepared for such a thing to happen. The indignity of it all galls you, nonetheless, and you turn to the Chancellor to offer your apologies and do damage control. 

“I—“ but the words refuse to come, because there, kneeling by the chancellor and holding him fiercely, the ghost of Cronus Ampora, the Orphaner Dualscar, is snarling up at you. “I apologize,” you force your mouth to say, “I must go chastise my crew. Excuse me.” 

You abscond with as much grace you can manage, which admittedly can’t be much when you feel the floor has been abruptly taken from under you, and storm away to yell and threaten some highbloods into submission. You still catch a look of those eyes following your every movement, the same bloodthirsty threat taunting memories you haven’t dwelled in centuries. 

Temptation, she said, and you refrain the urge to laugh bitterly as you torment your crew until you feel better about the sheer unfairness of it all. 

  


* * *

  


Vantas tried to yell at you for the incident with the blueblood, amusingly enough, because he disapproved categorically of your killing of his would-be murderer. The attempt ended abruptly, as soon as you told him the real reason you saw fit to kill the man, and then Vantas left the block in a tantrum, snapping that he’d like to talk to the supposed ambassadors currently under your care. Rather than follow him and see what he does – you have a good idea of what he will do, all things considered – you chose instead to make your way to the hangars and study the ghost of your past that, as the Handmaid so delicately put it, is currently _tempting_ you. It’s been hours now, but you continue to find it fascinating, a sickening nostalgia gnawing at the back of your mind as you watch the seadweller bully his way around the _Leviathan_ and the various crews working on it. 

You knew, of course, that the Chancellor’s matesprit was a singular troll, by his own right. Her Imperious Complacence hold onto the Empire is tightest around technology, since she submitted it to the control of her matesprit, but your web of spies is staggering on its own and knows well how to circumvent the perpetually compromised network. Though the Empress herself insists that her GEMINI and DIOSCURI programs are meant to protect the Empire and nowhere near as aggressive as the tools she used the sweeps prior to her coronation, you prefer to assume there are ears and eyes everywhere, and figure most smart trolls do as well. As such, you knew the Chancellor’s matesprit was a seadweller and yet also the Head Admin of his flagship. You also knew about his relationship with the ex-Helmsman of the _Battleship Condescension_ , and certain whispers about the wholly inexperienced Rear Admiral currently in charge of handling the Truvian front. Your sources had very little to say about him personally, beyond little less than forty sweeps of impeccable service to the Empire and a temper bad enough to put the fear of him in anyone who threatens his quadrantmates or the integrity of his ship. 

None of your sources thought to give you a sign, however, to go with the name. Why would they? Dualscar’s line was never terribly noteworthy in the end, and no one cared to keep track of it but you. They all died young, caught in a web of inexperience and bad luck, without a chance to truly live up to their potential. They were all insignificant in the eyes of the Empire, but you couldn’t stop yourself from hoping that some of your blood would run in them, that one day one of them would live to be someone remarkable like you dreamed the dashing scoundrel of your youth could have been. 

When you see the boy, yelling orders and terrorizing midbloods that scamper around to try and please him, all you can really see is Dualscar, hungover and cranky as all hell, howling at his crew to get the damn ship off shore already. But though the resemblance is uncanny, the more you look, the more the differences become apparent. There’s a strange meekness to the boy, a tilt to his spine that has less to do with age and inexperience, and more with the certainty that mistakes have dire consequences. It’s all subtly written in the way he walks and holds his tablet. How he points to this or that and then stomps over to show them exactly what he means, hands-on. It’s the same sort of forcefulness you remember blanketing all of Dualscar’s men, but with a crucial difference that makes your memories bitter, in a way. Dualscar was the center of the world, no matter where he went. He craved attention and knew quite well how to get it, even if it wasn’t the sort he should want. This boy, spitting image of him, keeps to the sidelines, giving orders and making a fuss without actually putting emphasis on himself. You wonder why that is, or what could have possibly happened to him, to learn the one lesson you could never teach his Ancestor, in all the sweeps you knew him. 

You suppose finding it out won’t be that hard, and summarily decide that getting to know the boy and ‘falling into temptation’, like the Handmaid so kindly put it, are necessarily two very different things. You walk down the stairs towards the hangar, silk billowing in your wake, and ignore the trolls that stop and stare as you pass by. 

“Admin Ampora,” you say, the words strange and awkward in your tongue, though you doubt anyone would notice, “a word, if you please?” 

You were not expecting your heart to crack so loudly, when he subjects you to the same calculative, defensive glower that Dualscar mastered when he was three. You swallow it down and smile at him, outwardly much less expectant than you really are. Then he shakes his head a little and puts the tablet in the hands of one of the midbloods crowding around him, and your smile turns a sliver more sincere as he makes his way closer to where you are. 

“Of course, Admiral,” he says, and if he’s afraid of you, he doesn’t let it show, hiding behind protocol with all his might. “What can I do for you?” 

“Walk with me,” you say, folding your arms inside the sleeves of your shirt as you start heading back towards the main deck. “I believe there’s much we ought to talk about.” 

“Is there?” He sounds cautious and guarded, matching your stride but respectfully keeping behind, as he should. “I would not know, Sir.” 

“No,” you chuckle to yourself, focusing on the corridor and the twisty route back to your quarters, rather than him. Or at least trying to. “I don’t suppose you wouldn’t know. I would like to apologize, about the unfortunate incident involving the Chancellor, it was not my intention to upset him.” 

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” he says, slow and careful, and you really shouldn’t find the nervousness endearing, but then again, you’ve always found Amporas endearing even at their worst. 

“You are his matesprit, are you not?” You risk a look at him over your shoulder, and his expression is a fascinating mixture of nerves, fear and near feral possessiveness barely kept in check. “It’s only proper to extend my apologies to you, as well.” You pause a moment, just enough for the words to sink in. “Do you accept them? I truly mean no harm to your matesprit, Admin Ampora, he is the first Chancellor since I left the post that might actually have the Empire’s best interests in mind.” 

When you step into the elevator, you notice he’s rooted on the spot, staring at you both in fascination and in horror. Perhaps he had not known about your sweeps of service to the Empire in that particular office. Perhaps he’s trying to know which monstrous bastard was your alias, while you did. You arch an eyebrow at him, patiently waiting for him to step into the elevator with you. He snaps out of it almost audibly, and scurries inside in a way that should not be possible for a troll of his height. 

“I—of course I do, Admiral,” he says, voice strained. “Thank you.” 

He’s inching towards the wall, the furthest he can stand from you without being obvious or rude about it. You think it’s heartbreaking and hilarious, and endeavor not to let it show in your face. 

“Think nothing of it,” you shrug, looking up at the line of numbers above the door, as the elevator climbs its way to the highest floor. “In truth that is not why I would like to speak with you, but you will forgive me. I am an old man, and I follow old ways.” He shifts again; nervous enough you think he might explode at the smallest provocation. He startles somewhat, when the doors chime and open for you. “Tell me, Admin Ampora, how much do you know about who your Ancestor was?” 

The expression on his face is positively delightful. 

  


* * *

  


“I didn’t expect you to come out.” 

You take a seat next to the other, and don’t bother to disguise the look you give him. He’s resting his chin on his hands as they hold onto his cane, while he studies the colorful creatures swimming across the tank. He looks good, far better than you would have expected. He surprises you yet again by giving you a thin-lipped smile. 

“I suspect your expectations will be challenged more than once, before we leave,” the old man tilts his head slightly to the side, appraising you. “We live in interesting times, Garfit.” 

You arch an eyebrow at him, for the insolence of using your given name, before you scoff and go sit next to him. You take a moment to arrange your skirts properly, then fold your hands on your lap and prepare to retaliate accordingly. 

“We do,” you sigh placidly, “it is the blessing of old age, after a certain point, everything is interesting.” You pause minutely, before adding a ghost of snideness to your voice. “Though of course, I’m sure even a sweep in your previous employment would have made the rest of your life interesting by comparison. How long were you in the helm, in the end? Nine thousand?” 

“Ten thousand two hundred eighty one sweeps,” he replies, icily. “Give or take a few perigees, but who still cares about perigees, at our age? I’m sure you don’t care either, after your exile… pardon, your mission into the Fringe.” 

"True, true!” You laugh, refusing him the satisfaction of being upset by his words. “It has been long, now. Of course, I had certain advantages I believe weren’t available to you during your service to the Empire.” You smirk at him with all your teeth. “Body autonomy, for one, though I hear it isn’t quite a privilege for Helmsmen these days. I imagine it must be infuriating for you, to see them take such boons for granted.” 

“On the contrary, I find it one of the few things I reluctantly admit the Empress has done well,” the yellowblood looks down at his claws, feigning indifference. “You will like her, her attempts are earnest and she truly wishes well for the Empire.” You brace yourself. “Of course, you don’t really have a choice, do you?” 

You scoff, before you can help yourself, and rather than see the odious man smirk, you turn your eyes to the fish. Quite a whimsical thing, that tank. Your predecessor would have been appalled by the extravagance, but your predecessor was mercifully spared having to witness you at your prime. It is a blessing only your bloodline knows, the direct inheritance and the guidance of your Ancestors, and then freedom from that control to do with all you know what you will. Your descendants look at you with awe and terror in turns, unsure if they will ever be good enough to fill the shoes you’ll leave for them. You still remember what it felt like, to see Lord Imoogi in all his stern, solemn glory and know one day you’d inherit the cloak and the title, and wondering quietly if you’d also inherit the attitude. Your children will learn, in turn, that they must make the cloak suit them, rather than the other way around. 

“Is that what you think this is?” You sneer at him, shifting in your seat and causing your skirts to rustle loudly. “That I am enslaved to the Empress the same way you were, and now that you’ve escaped your punishment, you may mock me for sticking to mine?” You roll your eyes. “Like all slaves, you understand nothing. I have a choice, every child of my blood has a choice. And we honor our choice and stand our ground.” 

“Is that how you live with yourself?” He tilts his head to the side, sneering right back at you. “I haven’t mastered the art of selective hypocrisy yet.” 

“I doubt you will,” you snort, looking down at your claws, all delicately decorated in violet. “You may not be a slave in body anymore, but you will never cease being a slave in mind.” You chuckle wryly, drumming your claws on the armrest of you seat. “I could never make up my mind about you, you know? I never knew if I envied you your helm, always so close to the Empress, always in her thoughts, while I rotted away in the Fringe, forgotten by virtue of my efficiency and her trust in me. Or if I was still bitter I couldn’t talk her into letting me have you. You could have powered this ship on your own and save me the perpetual shortage of proper Helmsmen.” You offer him a smile full of teeth, fins folded back tauntingly. “You’d have liked that too, wouldn’t you? Sacrifice yourself for others?" 

"I would have liked to see you hooked up in a helm,” he drawls, refusing to raise to the bait, “that would have been enough to almost make up for my ten millennia of service. But you’re too weak for it, aren’t you?" 

"Not anymore, no,” and as if to prove your point, you allow your powers to press against his, violet light crackling in static around your hand as you do. “But I will never catch up with you, if that’s what you mean. Our powers weaken with each generation, if you shoved me into the helm, I couldn’t budge this ship an inch on my own, even now. Not for long, anyway.” You sigh a little wistfully. “The Inquisitor could have done it, though. The Inquisitor destroyed entire cities with a twitch of his hand, and stopped even _you_ in your tracks, didn’t he? Forced you to hold still and watch, while your mutant died.” You smile at him as if remembering a fond memory, although you were not present when it happened. “The first of my name realigned the moons for his Empress. In a few generations my descendants won’t be strong enough to stir her tea for theirs." 

"Are you trying to pick up a fight with me, Imoogi?” His power opens to yours, dwarfing your psychic pressure with his own, and making you feel very, very insignificant in a quiet, understated way you refuse to acknowledge. “Because even your esteemed Inquisitor at his best couldn’t stop me, now." 

"A fight would be nice, admittedly.” You arch an eyebrow at him, just for the hell of it lashing out hard enough the ship itself creaks in protest, but he doesn’t budge at all, unaffected by your attempt. “What greater way to die, than at the hands of the most powerful troll in the galaxy?" 

"You’re insane," he snarls, finally breaking out of the placid façade and giving you a look of pure contempt which you relish for all it means. 

"And so are you, for all you like to pretend otherwise,” you laugh at him, in the face of his power and his anger, and admit, in the deepest corners of your mind, that if you were a couple centuries younger and his moirail were someone else, you would be tempted to try and seduce him in to your black quadrant. Quite a suicidal thing to do, all things considered, but then, you’ve never been one to play it safe. As it is, you are too old for those games, now, and out respect and, dare you risk it, affection for his moirail, you will leave him be. Just like the Handmaid said, you know how the dance is supposed to go, after all. “I’m just insane enough to know how I’d like to die, because that’s still a comfort left to me. But you? What comfort do you have, Helmsman, when it comes down to it? They’re never going to let you end." 

He stands up abruptly, fast enough you know the movement was at least partly aided by his powers. He looks down at you, glowering menacingly and giving away the gaping wound you just rubbed salt all over. You expected as such, but it’s always nice to know your observation skills have yet to fail you. 

"Lay a hand on the boy,” he hisses, baring his teeth and sparkling in red and blue, all just for your benefit, “and I will _comfort_ you, Imoogi. He’s not one of yours." 

You laugh again, unmoved by his theatrics and utterly amused by his reaction. He is lucky his moirail is not at all like his Ancestor, or that devotion would become his greatest folly. Perhaps that is why you despise him so much now, because he reminds you of yourself when you were young and naïve and didn’t understand the yoke of loving an Ampora. 

"He might as well be,” you retort smugly, because it’s the truth and there is no greater source of amusement for you, than wallow in the truth. You pull your lips into a smirk to match your tone. “Do you really see the Spider when you see him? If he were hers, instead of mine, he would be _dead_.” You affect your voice with mock-surprise. “Or are you as deluded as Vantas, to think he’s _yours_?" 

"He’s his own,” the pitiful fool snaps, still trying to cower you and not understanding you’ve long since outgrown all that could make you waver like that. “Not Dualscar’s, not Mindfang’s, not yours.” He points the cane at you, in a way that would be admittedly far more impressive if he were holding a sword instead. “And if you try, even once, to tell him he’s not his own, I will dispel this nonsense of yours about _comfort_." 

“I’ll tell him what he wants to know,” you shrug, before standing up and gaining height advantage of him once more. “He’s mine, for all you don’t want to admit it, but he’s not a child. He has a right to his own choices, and I am not insecure enough to try and deny him them.” You leer somewhat, ignoring the way the ship creaks again at the sudden psychic pressure making the air thick and sweet with threat. “Or are you afraid he will not choose you, if given the choice? I thought all slaves knew the value of free will, but perhaps one’d need to be free in the first place, to really understand it.” 

He storms away, feet hardly touching the ground as he goes, and you sit back and laugh yourself nearly to tears. Ah, whoever said with age necessarily comes wisdom? They were a fool, certainly. But if you must resist temptation, then the rest of the world will have to resist your wrath in turn. 

  


* * *

  


“It wasn’t serendipity,” you say, watching with mild amusement as Eridan fumbles with his cup in the wake of your words. “If that’s what you’re worrying. Please be sure to let your matesprit know he needs not fear for your virtue, I am too old for such nonsense.” 

He laughs a little weakly, still wary. But he has yet to refuse an invitation to enjoy your company, even after you’ve angered both his moirail and his matesprit, so you suppose he does truly enjoy your stories of his Ancestor and your youth. He gives you a shrewd look, placing the cup on the table where he can’t drop it, and allowing a puzzled frown to dip his eyebrows. 

“What am I, to you, then?” He tilts his head to the side, fins flared just enough and expression the same challenging one that Dualscar favored so much. “What do I owe you?” 

That is, you think, the crux of the differences between them. Dualscar was certain the world owed him everything and acted accordingly, demanding his share from everything, whether he was actually entitled to it or not. But this child, he’s learned the opposite, somehow, and you burn with curiosity to know what circumstances taught him such things. He slaves away, doing his best no matter what, as if he had to pay a debt too big to ever be sated. There’s little arrogance to him, and what is there, is mostly for show and because it’s expected of him. Nonetheless, you like him, perhaps because he is so different from his Ancestor. Because he makes it easier to remember that he’s not your best friend brought back from the grave, and he does not confuse your feelings any more your other children do. 

“I met your Ancestor the day we crawled out of the caverns,” you say, putting down your cup and standing up, “and I picked a fight with him before a lusus even chose either of us. It was a fight that lasted centuries, for as long as he lived to fight it.” You turn your back on him, staring instead at the tapestry on your wall and the many names embroidered in it, your name the last one to have been added. “He was my friend and my rival, and sometimes my matesprit, and sometimes my moirail. He walked the road with me, and by his side I learned the most important things I know, which is who I am and why I do what I do.” You smile thinly, arms folded behind your back and claws hooked on the bracelets on your wrists. “And I let him die a coward’s death, in the end, because I was young and dumb and didn’t know any better.” You turn to him again, one eyebrow arched as you admired the beautiful dumbstruck expression on his face. “What do you owe me, child? Nothing. But for the love I once had for your Ancestor, for the certainty that at least some of my blood runs in your veins, _I_ owe _you_ the world.” 

“I… you don’t…” He trails off, fins folded back defensively and eyes wide. “ _I’m just an admin_. And a monumental fuck up.” 

“And Cronus Ampora once shot my ship pointblank while standing next to me in the docks,” you deadpan, arching an eyebrow at the panic you seem to have thrown him into. “That was his name, by the way. You alone have any claim to know it. And he once got me flayed alive by my own Ancestor. And the number of beatings I received, as discipline for something he did, is incalculable.” Your lips curl into a softer smile, amusement coming to the forefront in your expression. “What I’m offering you has little to do with what you have or haven’t done, Eridan, and everything with _who_ you are.” 

“What _are_ you offering me?” He whispers, claws nervously clicking as he fiddles with his sleeves. 

“You’re not my descendant,” you say, shrugging lightly. “I have no claim on you, not like I do on the rest of my children, so I cannot offer you a place with me, not the way your Ancestor had a place with us. You are too old and you’ve made a life of your own, haven’t you?” He nods mutedly, reluctant. “It would be cruel to take you way from it.” You smirk a little. “Not to mention, your Chancellor would be cross with me, if I did.” He laughs weakly, slouching a little more. “No, not the offer I make my children, when I find them. But I’m old and powerful and the Empire still knows to fear my wrath.” You grin at him and indulge a little in some recklessness as you stretch a hand and allow the cup you abandoned on the table to float its way back to your grip, cradled in a faint violet glow. “I’m sure there must be something you want, that I can provide.” 

“I don’t deserve—“ He begins, spluttering helplessly in a disgustingly endearing fashion that you should probably not enjoy as much as you do. 

“I’m afraid it’s not for you to decide that,” you say, grinning behind your cup. “You have a few nights left aboard my ship, boy, I suggest you use them to think of something you want. Because I’m rather fond of spoiling my children, and the fact spoiling you will invariably piss off your quadrantmates is a temptation I might not resist.” 

That sobers him up nicely, and you approve of the way he composes himself to sit rigidly and give you a frosty look. You don’t want his scorn, of course, but it’s nice to see he does have fangs, after all. 

“How do I know you’re not just making all that shit about my Ancestor up?” He snaps, scowling viciously. “How do I know you’re not just trying to use me to get to my quadrants?” 

“I don’t know,” you smile, tugging down the collar of your shirt to bare the scars on your chest, arranged in a very familiar sign. “How _do_ you?” 

The look he gives you is something you won’t stop relishing in for very, very long. 

  


* * *

  


Vantas is rather sulky during the formal dinner you host in his honor. Partly, you think, because he couldn’t find a fault in your treatment of your guests or an inconsistency in your reports. Mostly, you suspect, because Eridan has become a frequent visitor of yours, and you both have taken to walk along the bridges and corridors of the ship, as you share stories of your past and details about your ship with him. He’s warmed up rather nicely to you, enough to let you see that the proclivity towards profanity and uncouth conduct might in fact be genetic, and also to feel chastised when you correct him on it. 

He’s also found company in your youngest descendant, who is barely a few sweeps older than him and finds him nearly as fascinating as Eridan himself seems to find him. The potential friendship pleases you mostly because have had no hand in it, beyond giving your approval when Arthur asked for it, and because it suits your plans rather nicely. You still wish to take him under your wing more formally, but it’s not your place and as the Handmaid so kindly reminded you, there are consequences for falling into temptation. You have bigger plans and more important things to do, than playing games with a child, as entertaining as it is. 

“I feel you and I might be kindred spirits, Chancellor,” you tell him, once the rest of the guests have left and you have convinced him to stay behind and enjoy some tea in your company. 

“Are we, now,” Vantas says, scowling for all he’s worth and clinging to his sour mood as much as possible. 

“We are, I fear,” you give him a half smile, before putting your cup down. “It is a terrible burden we bear, you and I, but I hope you will accept my council in that regard. Experience is a harsh taskmaster, but mine is free for you to take, if so you want it.” 

“And what burden is that?” He asks, eyes narrowed and expression closed off. 

“Serving the Empire, of course,” you drawl, teasingly. “Though I will admit we seem to share the same proclivities, in other areas. I’m afraid loving who we love is an art I’m far less prepared to council you in, than how not to die a martyr for your cause.” 

“Do I have to fucking order you to stay the hell away from my matesprit?” He snarls, putting down the cup hard enough it’s a miracle it didn’t break. 

“Only if you wish to earn his anger,” you laugh, shrugging lightly. “I have no desire to meddle in your personal affairs, Chancellor.” 

“And that’s why you told him his Ancestor was your matesprit,” he interrupts, deadpan. 

“Was I supposed to keep it a secret?” You arch an eyebrow at him, taunting. “My interest in him in far from romantic, I assure you. Although perhaps you’ve heard stories about my descendants, told by those who don’t understand the value of inheritance or the services my line has performed for the Empire.” 

“They tell many stories about you,” he says, giving you a meaningful look, “ _Admiral_.” 

“I suggest you believe only the ones that end in murder,” you grin, running a claw over the edge of your cup. “My line has honored the tradition to induct our children into the fold young. We believe in inheritance, Chancellor, and our burden is too cruel to pass on without at least some help to navigate it. We are the last true psionic seadweller line, carriers of a yoke as old as the Empire itself. To let a child discover his powers and his place in the world on his own would be cruel. But inheritance is not predestination. You are not your Ancestor anymore your matesprit is his. Chalk up my fondness for him on my disgustingly sentimental nature, if you wish, but I assure you I have more than enough flaws for you to hate, that don’t revolve around a penchant to fuck my descendants.” 

Your lips twitch as you swallow back a bark of laughter when he chokes on spit. 

“You know what’s your biggest flaw?” He growls, glaring at you as if he wishes he could will you out of existence. 

“Do enlighten me, Chancellor.” 

“You love the sound of your own damn voice too much,” he says, shaking his head in disgust. 

“Well,” you chuckle, unrepentant, “I’m not going to deny that. I was blessed with a rather pleasant-sounding voice, if I do say so myself.” 

“I disagree,” he says, tone as flat as the table between you. “But you know what else? You’re really fucking obnoxiously good at derailing. You’ve been circling around me like a fucking shark, Imoogi, testing out the waters and taunting me. I might not be fucking old as balls, but I’m not stupid. Tell me what you want so I can say no and we can move on from this fucking charade. I’m tired of it.” 

“Very well,” you muse, utterly unruffled by his outburst. “I would ask you, as a fellow servant of the Empire, that you take my youngest and my eldest into your council, and that you support my plight when I ask the Empress to name me Warden of the Fringe.” 

There’s a long silence after that, as he stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. You ignore his look and reach for your cup, taking a delicate sip of your tea with all the calm and poise you possess. 

“And why the ever loving _fuck_ would I do that?” Vantas demands, quiet and murderous in a way that makes you wonder if he’ll throw himself at you if you give him the smallest excuse. 

Such a delightful child, really, you still wonder how he hasn’t been killed yet. 

“Because the throne sits in the dragon’s jaws, Chancellor,” you say, voice the solemn, low tone of an official proclamation, and suddenly the troll sitting before Vantas is no longer an eccentric fool but a general of a thousand battles and the former owner of the title this child so carelessly claims as his own. You relish in the way he sits back, instantly guarded and expectant. “And there will always be an Imoogi in the service of the Empire.” You push away your chair and stand, folding your arms behind your back as your skirts trail behind you with a quiet rustle. “My Ancestor, the first of my name, bent the knee to the woman who would become the very first Empress, more than a hundred and fifty thousand sweeps ago. Since then, all his descendants have been groomed to serve the crown and ensure the safety and well-being of the Empire.” 

You nod to the wall as the tapestry unrolls itself, covering most of it. Dozens of names are recorded on it, forming a spiral that spreads from the center, marked by your sign. Dozens of trolls who were, in their time, Lord Imoogi, and served their Empress dutifully and loyally. You are the very last link in that glorious chain, and you will be until you die, and the next in line takes your place and your title, and pledges himself to the service of the Empress. Trolls don’t understand the system that governs your bloodline, because trolls are fickle, worthless things that don’t have it in themselves to aspire to more. You find their attempts to discredit you amusing, at best, and mock-worthy at worst. You will meet this new Empress and enter her service just like your Ancestors entered the service of their Empresses. You will not be the one who breaks the chain of uninterrupted service and dedication. You will not be the dragon that snaps his jaws shut. 

“We have been generals, wardens, admirals, spies, advisors, chancellors, from the very birth of the Empire, and we will continue to be whatever the Empire requires of us, until the Empire itself collapses.” You reach a hand to finger the old cloth, as old as the Empire itself, soft and frayed but still holding on, just like you. “There will _always_ be an Imoogi at the service of the Empress and the throne will _always_ sit in the dragon’s jaws.” You turn to face Vantas, who is now standing himself, staring at you in fascination. You raise your hands in surrender, palms up, making the gold bracelets jiggle as you do. “Lowbloods do not thrive in the Fringe, Chancellor, and highbloods are easily corrupted by the insidious illusion of power the lawlessness and wildness of its borders give. The sheer fire power required to keep the peace is too much temptation for most trolls.” You give him a proud look, tilting your head back and abusing your height for all its worth. “I am _not_ most trolls. I was granted your title in the wake of the exile from Alternia,” you say, purely for the pleasure of watching his eyes widening considerably. “And I served the Empire faithfully for three thousand sweeps before I realized I was needed elsewhere. I have since then been pacifying no man’s land and keeping some measure of control in the borders of the Empire.” You take a step closer to Vantas, and to his credit he does not step back, instead standing his ground with remarkable pride. “The Empress wants peace, but if the Fringe is not kept in line, only war will follow. If my Empress orders me back into her court, I will gladly do so, because she is my Empress and I am hers to command. But I will do her little good there, when the rebellions and the uprisings start, and the Fringe seduces away her most trusted pawns.” 

“And how will you pacify them?” He snaps, still resisting, but, you think, mostly on principle than any real objection. “You will cull the ones that revolt?” 

“Under Her Imperious Condescension, I did, yes,” you arch an eyebrow at him, leaning in a bit closer into his personal space. “But Her Imperious Condescension is dead, and the Empire has a new Empress. I will serve the Empress with the tools she gives me, and if I am to pacify the Fringe without culling those who resist her reign, then I will find a new way to do so.” You lean in a little further. “And if that doesn’t please the Empress, I will find another way. But I will not leave my place before her throne, nor will I forsake my oath of service. Whether she knows it or not, whether you admit it or not, the Empress needs me. And my inheritance, the precious burden passed down from generation to generation, Chancellor, is that I will always be there. I will not falter, Vantas, _because I cannot_.” 

“Say I support you,” he whispers, tilting his chin up and trying to gain some ground, “say I believe you. Why would I take your spies with me?” 

“Oh, you are not naïve enough,” you laugh, granting him a few more inches of space between you, “to think I _announce_ my spies that clumsily, are you?” You shake your head and shrug again, jewelry ringing as you do. “My children will be Lords, when I am no more. I am old, Chancellor, and I do not intend to live forever. I am too smart to wish for something that foolish.” You smirk at him, smug. “But when I’m gone, you will remain. And you will still be Chancellor, by then, because we’re kindred spirits and you cannot abandon your duty any more than I can abandon mine. I want the future Lord Imoogi to learn your temper and the weight of your authority, because when the time comes, he will serve in your company and I’d rather he saw you as a friend, than a rival.” 

“I notice you don’t say what I should see him as,” he arches an eyebrow in return. 

“Because it doesn’t matter,” you admit, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. “Your opinion of him will not change his commitment to his cause. His opinion of you, however, could cost you your life, Chancellor. If anything, it’s for your own safety.” 

“Are you threatening me,” he demands, incredulous, and you wonder how is it he’s managed his post without getting used to threats. 

“I am merely reminding you that when you deal with dragons, you might get hurt. Our loyalty is to the Empress and the Empire, not to any given troll.” You raise your hands again, mockingly this time. “I find you a suitable servant of the Empire, Chancellor Vantas. Rest assured that if I didn’t, you would be dead and no one would know to point the blame at me.” You smile nastily, with all your teeth. “You would not be the first beloved of an Empress I murder, for the greater good. Cadmus will not hesitate to do the same, if the situation presents itself.” You brush invisible lint off your clothes, absently patting the embroidery on it. “But he is a good man. He’s learned much of me, and he would gladly put his knowledge to your service, if you let him. I believe he will be an asset to you, before I die.” 

“And after you die?” Vantas asks, eyes gleaming with threat and restrained violence. 

“After I die, his relationship with you will be solely your responsibility, _my Lord_.” 

Vantas stares at you for a long moment, red eyes calculating and shrewd, before he takes a seat. Although ‘slumps into his chair’ might be a better way to describe the movement, all things considered. He takes a long sip of his tea, mulling on his thoughts, and out of consideration for him and because you really do like the tiny terror, you take a seat as well. 

“What about the youngest?” He asks, once he’s finished his tea, resting his hands on the table in a neutral posture. 

“I admit that’s more of a personal whim, than anything else,” you say, fiddling with the ring on your middle finger. “Arthur is young and eager to learn, but the Fringe doesn’t suit him like it does the rest. I would send him to court instead, but he’s too young for that, yet. He’s the youngest, he hasn’t had time to learn the prejudices of the old ways. I think it would benefit him to learn from you, rather than me.” Your lips twitch mischievously. “And he’s rather taken with your matesprit, as well.” You enjoy the way Vantas tenses all over at that tidbit. “There aren’t many seadwellers in the Fringe, and he’s never had a chance to socialize with another of our caste. Eridan,” Vantas positively glowers when you say the name, and it’s _adorable_ , “tells me that he is the only seadweller in your ship as well, and that his contact with those of our caste is minimal as well. Perhaps they can keep each other company, in their own way.” You smile sweetly at him, feigning innocence. “I’m sure he’s already told you they’ve been hanging out recently. As far as seadwellers go, Eridan seems of the small minority that doesn’t have their heads perpetually stuck up their ass.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Vantas says through gritted teeth, in a way that lets you know he’ll agree and knows he’ll agree and hates himself for it already. “I will let you know about my decision before we’re scheduled to leave.” 

“I’m sure you will,” you say, resisting the urge to laugh. “You’re a reasonable man, Chancellor, it’s one of the things I like best about you.” 

  


* * *

  


You give Cadmus your swords, before he leaves. Worn and old, but still as sharp as ever, the hooked ends glimmer with history itself when you put them in his hands. They have been passed down from generation to generation, and with them the history of blood that has stained their blades since before the birth of the Empire. He’s quiet and reverent as he puts them away, head bowed as he understands his mission. You know he will do you proud in his new post, and that he will be a great Lord, when the time comes. 

To Arthur you give a smile and the offer to come back to your side, if life in the Inner Rim doesn’t suit him either. You know, in your heart of hearts, that he will never be a Lord, will never have his name added to the tapestry in your study. You don’t tell him that, however, because a dragon under the impression of a leash is still better than a dragon that knows himself free of responsibility. Whichever path he takes, you only wish it is not one that ends with you or your own having to put him down. Perhaps Eridan will help him find his way, much like Dualscar helped you find yours. Perhaps he will not. You watch your youngest go with a strange sadness that you bury under aplomb. 

And to Eridan, who has not yet figured out what to ask of you, you gift a small memento of your ship, something to remind him that he has friends to look after him, should he ever need it. He splutters gloriously when you give him the tank, flustered and embarrassed and oddly touched by the gesture. You don’t regret pulling him into your arms, as he stutters his gratitude, even when he goes rigid and terrified. 

“He would have hated you,” you whisper in his ear, and he shivers for a moment before reaching to return the embrace. “He would have hated you _so much_ , because he’d have realized you’re better than him already and he was too damn stupid to know how to be proud.” 

He doesn’t meet your eye, as he walks away, back slouched and steps hurried, and you are magnanimous enough to pretend you don’t notice the glint of tears in his eyes. You watch him go with a strange sense of serenity, and decide the Handmaid’s warning was redundant. You have secured your future, honored your past and embraced your present, and you’d like to think you would have done so just the same without her threats. 

Now all that is left is to meet the Empress who sits on the throne in your jaws, and repeat the oaths sworn in the blood of your Ancestors. They call you the Peacock, because they wish to believe your love for beauty diminishes your love for carnage. Let them call you what they want, you know who you are. 

And you look forward to reminding them. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Askblog for this verse.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com)


End file.
